


Forward, Backwards, Here Again

by TheWillowBends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode Related, F/M, Fluff, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Has Daddy Issues, Post-episode: S03E26 Once Upon a Time, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends
Summary: In a future where a bullet's trajectory made all the difference, Chloe makes a request that changes everything.A moment set in the universe of the AU episode of Season 3 "Once Upon a Time."





	Forward, Backwards, Here Again

Class lets out around three, and Lucifer is there on the hour, swinging the corvette around in a squealing circle through the fire lane, forever the centerpoint of action and interest. He grins at her from the driver's seat, handsomely self-satisfied, like a cat with cream and canary both. The look she gives him is reproachful as she slides into the passenger side, the eyes of the world on her, but he just grins wider and hardly bothers to look as he peels away from the curb and into L.A. traffic.

He drives like the devil's after him, or so her father says, his newest and most polite way of stating her boyfriend is an asshole. Chloe can't particularly argue the point or the minor inaccuracies therein, and she certainly never speaks aloud of the way it secretly thrills her, the wind chasing and swallowing their laughter as he hits a bend too hard and too fast, correcting only at the last delightful second. There are never words to articulate how the ferocious joy in everything he does is half of the appeal, the secret pleasure of his proximal hedonism. With him, she feels the armor of invincibility, as untouchable as the steel edge of a well-tended sword.

They watch the sunset scour away the fine detail of Los Angeles until all that remains is shadow and the glitter of artificial light, and then they fuck in the driver's seat of his car. The night is cool, but he warms her up well, his skin deliciously hot to the touch, his mouth open and wet against hers. She presses against him, onto him, does the work of the good of it for them both, laughing joyously when he kisses his way down her neck, his hand moving skillfully between them. When she comes, it knocks the breath from her, and she clenches around him, a wild and passionate thing, a beast with two backs and a mouth full of laughter.

They come down afterwards in a murmur of soft words and touches, until she's had her fill of him and slips bonelessly into the passenger seat. Lounging next to him, languid and pleased, she grins to see him putting himself to order, as fastidious as always in his preening. All of these facets of him, darling in their superficial gleaming, fascinate her, the devil in his many masks: king and punisher and hedonist and lover. Faces he wears and discards as necessary, and she has learned to hold him through the turning.

Eventually, he fusses his way to satisfaction, then settles back in his seat to return her study with keen eye, the smile playing on his lips, as insouciant as ever, though colored now by new softness in his bearing. When she reaches for his hand, he clasps it tightly in return, like a lifeline he has swam miles to find.

"I missed you," she says softly, then blinks, surprised at the upswell of emotion that makes her eyes water and heart clench.

"Did you now?" he murmurs, running a thumb along her knuckles, smooth as a kiss.

"Always," she says with a smile, which he returns tenfold and luminous.

He presses a kiss to her hand, and her heart flutters for the charming. Her body is still loose and warm with the pleasure of his touch; it makes her want to kiss him until the stars fall from the skies. When she leans in, he meets her halfway in perfect synchronicity, his mouth pressed softly against hers for a moment too short but enough to leave her breathless.

Mischief sparkles in his eyes when he looks down at her. "Tell me what trouble you've given your professors in my absence," he teases, and she tells him gladly of it all. Professors that condescend and encourage in equal turn, and classmates that hold her in awe and contempt alike. Late nights and endless coffee and her father's smile over weekend breakfasts with every step closer to graduation.

"And what of darling Penelope?" he asks finally, once she is exhausted of trivialities.

"Still in denial," she answers with a laugh. "I think she's hoping I'll come to my senses some day and go back to movies."

"The wardrobe was certainly superior," he remarks, glancing disparingly at her brown loafers, as if their banality was catching.

"I didn't hear you complaining a few minutes ago."

"One doesn't bite the hand that wanks them."

The laugh pummels its way out of her, and she shoves into him hard. Then she tucks herself under his arm and into the hollow of his side, nestling against him. The night is cool, but he is ever so warm; he burns like the stars he made. They savor a moment of fond silence as the world closes dark and still around them.

She never asks about Hell, and he never offers. The throne is a barren space in her knowing that he guards zealously. He keeps those secrets for Linda, who holds them clasped to her chest, held in the spaces of her mind like a sword sheathed. She has long stopped prodding him for answers, only waits in quiet certainty that if she is patient and willing enough, he will confide in her. Sacrifice, she finds, is less endearing than stories suggest. Time looms over them with heavy and brute intent; they never talk about the days that are numbered, only the comfort of counting the ones where he is hers.

Eventually, she turns to him, wrapping her hand around his. She worries the ring on his finger but meets his gaze fully when he looks to her. "How long are you here?" she asks quietly.

His smile falters, but he recovers well enough, using his free hand to cup her cheek and lean in for a kiss on her mouth, then her nose, each cheek, and the gentlest on her forehead. Sighing, he leans into her, nose in her hair.

"Not long enough," he says always and tightens his grip on her. He clears his throat, straightening. "I've made arrangements for this sojourn as necessary. You've the pleasure of my company for days yet." A smirk displaces the solemnity in his expression, chasing away the shadows for the moment. He drags a thumb over her pulse, grinning. "Whatever shall we do?"

"I'm sure we'll figure something out," she sighs into his shoulder. Loving on stolen time has taught her to be a gracious thief. She fingers the fine wool of his jacket, revels in the sensualities of his concreteness: the way his breath stirs the air and warms it, the solidness of muscle and bone, the wholeness of his presence.

Only the brightest and boldest of his stars can be seen here, and once the night has truly settled over them, she turns up to him with a faint smile. "You should come to dinner on Saturday."

He snorts, then pulls out his flash, taking a swig. "Darling, I know it's hardly a party without me, but your father's table is about as inviting as a papal luncheon." He frowns thoughtfully. "Though your father has better wine."

"Lucifer," she says quietly, "you don't mean that."

"Oh, I most certainly do. Your father doesn't mince his words, and he made his feelings on the matter quite clear last I saw him."

He takes another sip, then puts it away and pulls out a cigarette. She lets him light it and watches as he inhales deeply, blowing out rings into night air. She wonders if he really believes this mask has ever worked on her.

"My father is upset because he expected better from you," she says gently.

Lucifer rolls his eyes, gestures with his cigarette. "Your father never had expectations otherwise. If you recall, he personally put in a request to the academy administrator to have my application rejected. Not that it did him any good," he adds smugly, before leveling a pointed look at her. "It took cashing in three favors to bypass that order, you realize."

"You were a nightclub owner who sold drugs and called yourself the devil. It wasn't exactly the most promising resumé," she said wryly. Her face softens. "But he did warm up to you. It just took time."

"He hardly had a choice considering I was warming his daughter's bed," he returns with a leer.

The look she gives him is flat and unamused, and she shifts away from his embrace, taking his smile with her. "Lucifer, _please_," and her tone is plaintive enough to sober him. She watches him fidget, uncomfortably naked without the armor of his cynicism and sex. The hand she places on him is placating and kind. 

"I want you to come over Saturday," she continues, "and I want you to talk to my father."

Forcing out a breath, Lucifer deflates in his seat, looking away from her. "If it's what you desire."

"It is." Then she sucks in a breath, knowing the next part will be the hardest. "I want you to talk to my father," she repeats, "and I want you to tell him the truth about why you left."

"_Absolutely not_." Lucifer pulls away from her sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Are you quite mad? Your father has reason enough to hate me, and whilst I could hardly care if he does, but if he knew, he would - he would never - " He fumbles with his flask, nearly dropping it in his haste.

"He's not going to take me away from you, Lucifer," she says, reaching out soothingly, stilling his hand.

"You did!" he snaps, and the sting is sharp as a slap.

Chloe releases him and turns away. Shame is a creeping vine that shivers under her breast; she is never certain how to cull it. When she looks back, there is remorse in his eyes, and he squirms under her gaze.

"Chloe, I didn't mean - "

"You're right," she interrupts him, "I did run away. I was afraid. Afraid of what you were and what it meant for us. I was afraid of what it said _about_ me that I was still in love with you even after I knew the truth."

Reaching out, she clasps his hands, pulling him to her. She opens his palms, traces the lines, imagines all of the history and fortune hidden in their spaces. The kiss she presses against one is gentle and sweet, and when she looks at him, her eyes are wet and glittering with the stars of her love.

"But I couldn't forget how you made me feel," she whispers, holding his gaze, "and it brought me back to you."

His face softens. "That you did." 

She pushes out a breath, hard and stubborn. "I know what I'm asking isn't easy, but this isn't only about me. You always tell me you hate it when people blame the devil for the wrong in the world - but what if you gave somebody a chance to believe otherwise?"

"Are you asking the devil to take a leap of faith?" he scoffs.

"I'm asking you to have faith in yourself." Tightening her grip on him, she pulls him closer. "I want my father to know you as the good man I know you are."

"Chloe," he says warily, his face pained. "What you're asking - there's no going back."

"We never could," she answers. She closes the gap between them, curling onto his lap, her touch constant and gentle. "I don't want to go back, but we can't go forward with secrets between us either."

His laugh is humorless, bitter. "My own father abandoned me. Why should I believe yours any different?"

"Why shouldn't you?" At his hard look, she wraps her arms around him, pressing close and tucking her face against his neck. "I don't know why your father put me here, and I don't pretend to," she admitted. "But I know I love you, and nothing is going to change that, no matter what happens. I want to believe that choice was mine."

The tremor that moves through him is so acute she would not have noticed had she not been holding him, and braver now, she slips her hands up his arms, cups his face. The words are in him, she knows, tucked away in the places where they are kept safe. She hears them in every murmur of her name. She kisses him with everything in her, human and divine; he tastes like starlight and sin.

"Trust in me," she murmurs after, alit with fire and daring and hope.

He decides he can try.


End file.
